The Girl Who Cried Wolf
by the word crafter
Summary: When do your fears meet your identity?


It was dark. Screams and explosions filled the air about her, but all she knew was darkness. There was nothing in her world except the absence of everything; the only thing she knew to be true was nothing, nothing at all. Warmth enveloped her—then she was shocked with a burst of frost. Falling. She was falling. Her thoughts, her past, her life whistled about her, tumbling at breakneck speed down a hole that wasn't even there.

* * *

><p>He was beautiful, even to her eyes. A dark brown mane of thick, coarse hair drifted down his back. His chest, his muscles, his eyes, his nose, his arms, his legs, his rumbling, rough laugh. Through the pain she saw his face and through his face she saw her life; and when she saw her life, she smiled, because it had been nothing more than a dream before they'd met.<p>

When she found speech, she opened her mouth to ask a question.

"Who are you?"

He stopped. He had been touching her all over, a feeling she thought she quite liked. She liked the feeling of being admired. Admired, not used. Groggily, she shook the thought of the other one from her mind. That one, he'd used her body to make another jealous, and left her behind when she was no longer helpful. But this man was touching her because he saw beauty in her shape, and she shivered with excitement.

"I'll ask the questions," he murmured.

She wilted at the sound of his voice. It was so lyrical—but it was gruff, too, she noticed with a thrill—she found quite suddenly that she liked gruff voices, and waited patiently for him to continue.

"Who are _you?_" he asked.

"I don't know," she found herself breathing. "I don't know, honest."

"I believe you," he whispered gently. "It's alright, you're not supposed to remember who you were. You're only supposed to remember this moment, right now."

She realized that she liked only remembering this moment, right now, and smiled absently. "Quite," she added pleasantly.

But a thought crossed her mind. Her brow furrowed in concentration—she felt rather woozy from the idea, actually—but nevertheless, she asked, trustingly,

"Then, who am I, in this moment, right now?"

"I'll ask the questions," he repeated softly. "Don't worry. You'll find out soon enough." He touched her cheek. Lifting a hand to touch his, she felt her heart melting from the heat of his gaze, his eyes on hers.

"I think I love you," she said. "Is that normal?"

Grinning, he responded, "Yes, it's quite normal, actually. Most people like us do."

"Like us?" Her eyes flew open. What was he? What was _she_? What were they? She found that it did not trouble her in the least that she did not know; the mere promise that she would was enough to sustain her. This moment, right now, all she wanted was to be close to him—whatever, whoever, he was.

A piercing scream shocked her train of thought. Her pupils dilated in fright as she stared at the man in front of her. She scrambled to be freed of his grip, suddenly iron and powerful. Wriggling helplessly in his hands, she wondered why she hadn't noticed this imperfection in his face.

For when he'd opened his mouth to smile, two pointy, yellow fangs glinted in the light of a thousand burning torches; the torches of her heart.

* * *

><p>Lavender Brown found herself on the floor. Soaked in blood (was it hers? She wondered) and practically paralyzed from immobility, Lavender wondered how she'd come to lie, facedown, on the golden-tiled floors of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.<p>

For it was the Great Hall, she realized, and it was Hogwarts. Lifting herself from the ground, she peered drowsily about her. Bodies were strewn—human bodies!—across the floor, on the tables, benches, chairs, even draped across Dumbledore's golden eagle podium. Nervously tugging at her blood-drenched robes, she took a tentative step forwards.

"Please don't leave so soon, Miss Lavender," murmured a soft voice behind her. Soft and gruff, she noted. The combination was quite eerie. It was also quite familiar. She whipped around to face the voice's body.

She had to cover her mouth to keep a scream from escaping her lungs.

"It's you!" she screamed. "It's you!" Scrambling back, Lavender attempted to escape. She slipped in a pool of liquid. She fell to fast to recognize the substance. Gazing up, fear etched on her face, at the approaching figure, Lavender wondered if this was her last conversation.

"It is me," laughed the man in front of her. No longer did his voice seem soft and sweet. Merely empty, soulless.

"Get away from me, _werewolf!_"

"DON'T!" It was the man's turn to yell. "Don't!" He caught his breath, and gazed into her eyes, paralyzing her with—fear? Or curiosity? "Don't call me—_that._ Not when you're the same."

"The same?" Lavender squinted back into the man's face. "I'm no werewolf. My name's Lavender Brown. I'm a Gryffindor, I'm seventeen years old, my best friend's name is Parvati Patil, I love Ron Weasley, I have the Inner Eye...and I'm _not _a werewolf!"

"Listing those truths won't keep you from the ultimate reality," whispered the werewolf. "You're a werewolf. I created you. You're mine. You love me, more than anything in the world. You love _me!_ Fenrir Greyback! You _do!_" He finished in a scream, almost begging her to say it was true.

Fenrir Greyback. She'd known his name from somewhere. It was he who'd killed countless Muggles, he who'd created thousands of werewolves, who bred more werewolves amongst each other. He'd made an army of mutants. She was repulsed.

Nevertheless, a tug of pity pulled at her heart. Lavender felt herself wishing that she could affirm his desires, but she couldn't. Her heart belonged to another—albeit, another who would never return these feelings, but it bothered her not so long as she stayed true.

"I don't love you," she said. "I don't _love _you!" The tears flew. "I don't, I don't, I don't! My name is Lavender Brown, and I am _not_ a werewolf. I am a Gryffindor."

She fell to the floor, the weight of her emptiness pulling her down. Droplets of pain trickled down her cheeks, falling to the puddle of blood beneath her. She struggled with the power of her own misery. It pushed her face towards the floor, it closed her eyes, it breathed her last breath—and then it killed her.

Lavender Brown. Not a werewolf.

A Gryffindor.


End file.
